


It's Your Fate But It's Not Your Fault

by NeoVenus22



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Uni, Episode: s10e13 The Road Not Taken, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-13
Updated: 2010-03-13
Packaged: 2017-10-07 22:57:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeoVenus22/pseuds/NeoVenus22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lorne tries to adjust to the presence of a second Sam Carter.  ('Road Not Taken' universe; AU post-'Lost City'.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Your Fate But It's Not Your Fault

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: 10x13, 'The Road Not Taken'; 7x21-7x22, 'Lost City'; 8x01-8x02, 'New Order'

Evan takes Sam home (not like that, but like a friend would take a friend, or another alternate reality's version of a friend, home) and it's a full two minutes where they stand awkwardly in the hallway in front of her apartment, before Evan remembers that this Sam doesn't have a key.

He's been having moments like this all week, expecting things and then having to replace his normal ideas of the way the world works with phrases like 'this Sam'. It's not just Sam anymore, there's _that_ Sam and _this_ Sam, and it's weirder still to consider that _this_ Sam isn't even _his_ Sam.

Their Sam. Not his. Not like that.

"Sorry," he mutters, squeezing out a smile as he fumbles through his key ring and locates the key to Sam's apartment. She doesn't even blink that he has one; apparently in their reality they also have a habit of keeping each other's keys in case of emergency. "I didn't see Sam's keys in her locker," he says as he lets them in. "I guess she must've had them on her. I can..." Evan trails off as the reality of it smacks him full in the face; Sam had her keys on her person when she was caught in an explosion that obliterated her from existence. "I can make you copies," he finishes on autopilot. Sam is gone. Their Sam, his Sam, whatever, she's still gone, gone for good. He can make a copy of her apartment key, but it won't make a difference, it'll never be the original. Sam is gone. And if this Sam figures out a way to get back to her own universe, there won't even be a copy, or a copy of a copy, left.

Sam doesn't notice that Evan is losing his mind in the middle of her front hall. She's moved on, wandering through the apartment like someone would wander through a museum exhibit of a forgotten civilization. This is probably how she operated on missions, back before the missions were all stealth recon and insane rescues and there was a ninety-eight percent guarantee that something would blow up. Evan almost remembers the old days where he'd be stuck as the muscle on some science errand, being bored out of his mind while people tested soil. But he never went on missions like that with Sam, this Sam or that Sam or any Sam, so it's interesting to watch her reaction as he tries to picture her in some Goa'uld ruins. Pacing her way through an abandoned temple, curious but disconnected. It holds nothing tangible for her, it may have something she's interested in, but ultimately, she's not planning on staying forever.

Sam fingers a framed picture on the wall. Evan can't see the image itself, the sun is coming in through the windows and glaring off the protective glass. But he can guess what it's a photo of. SG-1, the way they'll go down in the history books: the stoic warrior Teal'c, the earnest nerd Daniel Jackson, Samantha Carter forever toeing the line between science and military, and their irrepressible leader, the sardonic Jack O'Neill, who had a habit of rubbing authority figures the wrong way, but earning the admiration and (occasionally grudging) respect of anyone positioned under him.

"He's dead, isn't he," says Sam quietly, noting the way the two-dimensional images of this universe's Sam and Jack are standing as close as they can without touching.

"In Antarctica," he says. "He activated the chair and held back Anubis's forces, but it was too late."

Sam straightens the picture, lowers her hand to her side, but doesn't look away from it as she talks. He wonders if she has the same photo. "Jack put himself in stasis," she says. "He was there for months before we were finally allowed to go find the Asgard and ask for help." Her face twitches a little in something that might be a smile, but Evan doesn't go any closer to find out. "He got promoted, headed the SGC for a year. Now he's in Washington." There's a twinge of pride lurking there, affection that can't be contained despite years of trying, and Evan is not immune to recognizing the cosmic joke. In her world, Sam knows Evan Lorne if only by reputation, but Sam Carter and Jack O'Neill seem to be an inevitability, no matter what universe they're in.

In a way, though, he's glad. She's not (their) Sam, but at the very least, he doesn't have to deal with the usual matter of treading delicately where Jack O'Neill is concerned. This Sam is regarding his death with a scientific detachment.

"You didn't take it well," he says.

Sam looks up sharply, and he realizes the pronoun error. "She," he corrects, but it's too late, he's started down this path. "She didn't take it well at all. It was too much, all the scrutiny, suddenly getting thrust into the public eye and trying to keep being that Sam Carter."

"'That Sam Carter'?" she echoes.

"The brains behind SG-1," says Evan. "The one who took over from Jack O'Neill. She could've done one without the other, coped with the media, or coped with the colonel's death, but not at the same time. She quit."

Sam's eyes widen. No one had bothered to mention this tidbit to her. "Quit?"

"A few months after I took over the team. Quit, retired, took an extended leave of absence, I'm not sure what the official word on it was." Evan shrugs, embarrassed he's telling her this, embarrassed he doesn't know. "She swears it wasn't personal. She went off and got married."

"And that's when you became friends?" Sam eyes him contemplatively, eager to fill in the blanks of this life she doesn't know.

Too bad for her, Evan's lost the urge to talk about it. "Yeah, more or less." He moves past her, going out of his way to give her space, even though he knocks against an end table with his hip to do so. The tiny sting keeps him grounded. He makes his way into the kitchen he knows (too) well, fumbles to start a pot of coffee. He assumes that Sam's caffeine dependency, while not as potent as Daniel's, is the same in any reality. Lord knows Evan could do with some artificial stimulation himself.

"And you and I... you and she, I mean..."

"No, we never." _And never will_, he doesn't say. Because that would imply he's given it more than a moment's thought.

"I'm sorry. You probably don't want to have to go through all of this again."

"No, it's... I don't know, it's all a little weird." He shrugs, flicks the coffee maker on and waits for the answering gurgle as it brews. He's preternaturally focused on the machine and he knows it, clings to it anyway like the lifeline to sanity it is.

"Only a little?" she says, and he can _hear_ the smile in her voice, Sam's smile, Sam's voice, and this is how people go crazy, he thinks.

"Okay, it's considerably weird," he admits, manning up and turning to answer the smile with one of his own.

Sam cocks her head slightly, and he can't gauge the expression in her eyes. "It's just so odd that we're friends," she says. The corners of her mouth narrow a bit in a grimace as she processes her words. "Not... odd. I didn't mean that." Evan nods in understanding, silently encouraging her to continue, knowing that they're both treading unfamiliar ground and are likely to stumble a few times. "You live in a different galaxy. I only really know you from files and mission reports." She smiles again, but this time it's weak, apologetic. "I feel sort of guilty that I don't really live up to the standards of the Sam you know."

"I don't know," he says before he can stop himself. "Sam made some questionable decisions that weren't up to her normal standards. But you never married McKay, right?"

"Uh, no. Fortunately for me, McKay's in a different galaxy, too."

"Seems less fortunate for me," he says.

Sam gives a noncommittal murmur to that, but he suspects she's in agreement. "Still," she says, before he has time to dwell, "at least here I gave it the good old college try, right?" Her almost defeated tone speaks levels to how universally screwed up the love life of Samantha Carter is, and now Evan feels guilty for bringing it up in the first place. The aroma of coffee washes over him and offers them both an out. He reaches just around her head and pulls out two mugs. He pours them both a drink before remembering he doesn't know how she takes it anymore.

Sam curls her fingers around the mug, stares at the black liquid, but doesn't sip. "So, you and she were close?"

"Yeah, I guess we were." Evan takes his coffee black, something he's been in the habit of since he got reassigned to SG-1. It scalds his tongue; he never remembers to wait half a second for it to cool down. Sam used to mock him for it, lift up the mug he brought her and ask 'can humans drink it yet?' "I kept expecting you to freak out on me," he blurts, "to yell at me for not being as good of a leader as I could have been. For taking a position that should have been yours. For not being Colonel O'Neill. But you never did."

"Major Lorne..." she says quietly, and Sam hasn't called him that in forever. It's sobering.

"I know," he says. "I know you're not her, and I know that you're never going to be her. But this isn't easy."

"No. I guess not." She looks down and taps her hand against the counter a few times. Her gaze flutters around the room, taking in the dust lingering in the corners behind the toaster and the breadbox, the magnets lying askew on the fridge door. "Last year, another SG-1 'gated through a singularity to end up in an alternate universe."

It's easy, if not bizarre, to see where this is going. "Yours."

"Yeah. It's not the first time we've... I've... dealt with alternate versions of myself, either. But this is the first time _I've_ been the alternate. It's..."

"Weird?" he fills in the blank, smiling a little despite himself.

"Yeah. Sorry. I feel like an imposter. I _am_ an imposter. That's the funny thing about this job, every time you think you know what to expect..."

Evan had been expecting lunch. He just had to finish up a final mission report, then he was delivering the files to General Hammond and collecting Sam because she promised him she'd take a break.

Then the klaxons had gone off, and one of the airmen patrolling the hall had checked his radio and confirmed it was coming from Sam's lab.

Suffice to say, Evan hadn't really expected any of this.

Sam's hand is on his elbow, fingers closing around his arm slightly, and though the contact is minute, he's oddly, immeasurably grateful.

"I'm sorry I'm not her, Evan," she says. "I'm sorry you didn't get to say goodbye." Her voice doesn't break when she says his name, and when he looks at her, he sees his Sam, heartbreakingly sad, but working through it because she has to, because she's needed.

Evan smiles at her, even though he knows it's dangerous. It's like stepping ever closer to the edge of an embankment, knowing what's waiting if he gets too close, just to see the view. "It's okay," he tells her, and he actually sort of means it. This isn't ideal, but he has answers. A transitional period. It's better than Sam ever got when she was in this position. She was just left to muddle through with nothing to hold onto, and she ended up all the more miserable for it. So he's grateful for what he has.

He and Sam always used to hang out in the kitchen. It spoke to the immediacy of their lifestyle, the intimacy of their friendship. Evan takes his mug and leads this Sam into the living room, to the ill-used couch and the coffee table scattered with unopened mail. Sam looks around, taking in the decor and trying to fit it all into her image of herself. They're both on uneven footing here. It shouldn't be a relief or a comfort, but it's both. It makes him feel less alone.


End file.
